I'm so used to being heartbroken,
I forgot how to cry.
So used to being hurt that I no longer wonder
why I just exist in it.
It's very rhythm in my bones,
building skyscrapers from the stones thrown at me
since before I could walk.
Horse and practiced hands and molded into art.
Why love in the penthouse of my tower,
in an escapist solitude that time devours,
petting my nightmares on their heads for their company,
cause I know exactly why they seek my company.
Then came a sculptor,
blessing me with words,
tapping into my emotional resolve,
and I felt my pain slip silently from my eyes
as the reservoir came asunder,
cause she told me,
broken crayons store color.